Hey, Show Me
by killians-dimples
Summary: Collection of Captain Swan drabbles and one-shots written during season four.
1. Chapter 1

_Stupid smuff about a second date, some grilled cheese, and Emma not giving a shit about the man he was – only caring about the man he is. Grinding, soggy french fries, and cuddles ahead._

**Will you want me always?**

It isn't until after she knocks on his door at Granny's that she starts to overthink it, frowning down at the styrofoam boxes balanced carefully in her left hand, the smell of fried batter and buttered bread seeping through the lids. She knows he likes grilled cheese – knows he practically devours it every day at noon when he has his lunch at Granny's (the man is freakishly disciplined about meal times) – but she isn't sure if _this_ is allowed.

It's been a long time since first dates and second dates and the formalities in between and she knows from the women's magazines that Mary Margaret leaves on the coffee table and David loves to read that she should wait a day or two, maybe play hard to get, but –

But she can't stop thinking about the way he pressed himself against her in the hall outside her door, the way his fingers barely grazed the ends of her ponytail with a light tug before he moved to cupping her neck, his rings cold and heavy against the flushed skin of her throat. She's already zoned out four times today thinking about how she could feel the groan caught in the back of his throat against her chest and really – she never was one for formalities anyway.

(Plus, she's played hard _enough_ to get – jungles and portals and emotional baggage to boot – if she's being quite honest.)

He opens the door with a scowl, eyebrows drawn low on his forehead and she doesn't even have time to ask him what's wrong because he's not wearing his brand new vest, just the dark blue button up with the sleeves rolled up over his forearms and _dear god_ – conscious thought leaves her mind with the way he braces himself against the frame.

(He may be a pirate but she knows a thing or two about pillaging and plundering and her thoughts are certainly not decent right now.)

"Swan." The darkness that clouded his face a moment ago disappears in an instant, shy smile curling the corners of her lips, and really, it's outside of her control when she takes a strong step forward, pressing him back with a hand against his chest and shutting the door with a kick of her boot. The grilled cheese takes a tumble to the ground in her attempt to get closer to him and his groan of appreciation tastes delicious pressed against her lips.

(She's sure this is rushing along the whole dating process but she's wanted him since she kissed him in the Neverland heat, her hands fisted in the lapels of his jacket and his skin warm beneath her fingers.)

His mouth opens against hers as she walks them backwards, his tongue curling around her own, her stomach flipping when his palm grazes the small of her back. He presses there lightly before dipping down, fingering the hem of her sweater in quiet consideration before deciding to slip underneath, the drag of his rings heavy and perfect against her skin. He brings her closer to him as she continue to move them with determination, tilting his head and practically attacking her mouth with his – pulling her deeper, further – desire coiling tight and hot in her belly with every languid stroke of his tongue.

He pulls back when the back of his knees hit the bed, eyes dark and heavy lidded as he blinks rapidly, trying to keep up. She shucks off her coat and toes off her boots, climbing right onto his lap as he stares up at her like she is special and important and _god_ – she just burns hotter.

"What are you – " He groans again when she cuts him off with a kiss, nipping at his bottom lip and worrying it between her teeth. His fingers clench on her hip with enough force to bruise and _oh_ – he likes it a bit rough.

(Like she is surprised because she heard the sound he made when she scraped her fingernails across his scalp, felt her own goose bumps rising in the wake of his experimental tug of her ponytail.)

(Maybe she likes it a bit rough, too.)

"Emma." He breathes out her name when she presses her hips down, angling just right so that the sparks of pleasure flame and bloom outward, making her feel breathless and alive. She does it again and he presses up with an answering motion, rocking slowly beneath her until he is hitting just where she needs through the material of their pants, until she gasps and threads her fingers through his hair. She feels it everywhere – the way he's moving carefully beneath her – between her legs, in her chest, deep in her belly. She wants to know what he feels like without the denim and leather between them – how his skin feels pressed bare against her own and what his eyes look like as he unravels above her.

Their panting is harsh in the quiet of the room, a steady autumn breeze blowing in from the open window and brushing over heated skin. His fingers slide just barely between the hem of her jeans and bare skin as he slows his hips beneath her, a heavy exhale pressed in the valley of her breasts as he drops his forehead.

She cards her fingers through his hair as she wills the inferno to calm, reading the tension in his shoulders as she stills.

"Hey." She whispers, and his body shakes in amusement. He leans back and arches an eyebrow, his eyes dark and clouded in arousal, his thumb tracing the dent in her chin.

"Quite the hello, love." He grins, boyish and stupid, and she can't help it when she brushes her lips against his again.

"I brought you grilled cheese." She supplies quietly, noses brushing, the limited space between them and the way his breath glances her collarbone with every steady exhale making her feel safe and small.

(It's been so long since she has felt _safe_ that sometimes it still scares her – makes her want to run – but she's learning not to. With _him_, she's learning not to.)

He peers up at her through thick black lashes and she traces the scar on the apple of his cheek, watching the shadows and demons battle it out as he traces his teeth with his tongue. She wants to ask him what's wrong but she knows it will only push him deeper, that he has the same fears and insecurities hidden beneath the bravado and swagger.

So she sits quietly, hand working at the tension in his neck as he considers his words.

"I've done things, Emma." She stays quiet and tries not to break at the desperation in his voice. Fear and uncertainty rises like a tide, threatening to pull her under but she focuses on the way he smiled when he first opened the door – dimples flashing in his cheeks. "I've hurt people and made deals and I'm not the man you think I am."

It explodes out of him in a whispered rush, the crease between his eyebrows deepening as his shoulders curl forward, the self-loathing a heavy mantle on his weary shoulders. She tangles her fingers in the charms of his necklace and tugs until his eyes blink up to meet her own, and she makes sure she has his full and prompt attention.

"Recently?" He nods and she chews on the inside of her cheek, considering. It dawns on her in a moment of startling clarity and if she could light the little imp on fire and watch him burn, she would.

Instead she sighs, and tells herself maybe no more binge watching late night Syfy movies if those are the images her mind comes up with. "Your hand?"

His shoulders slump further. "Aye, I made a deal with the Dark One. I – " His mouth opens and closes and no sound comes out, his blue eyes so very sad in the solitary candle that sits on his nightstand. He swallows hard and proceeds to tell her everything as she runs her fingers back and forth over the line of his necklace, following the warmth of his skin as he tells her about his dealings with the dark one. He is ashamed, she knows it when he pulls his hook from her thigh, but she curls her fingers around the metal and places it back.

"And did you ever _want_ to do any of these things?"

He shakes his head and she nods, sliding off his lap until her feet hit the ground, her knees a bit unsteady as she wobbles towards the toppled grilled cheese. They're probably a cold, congealed mess of ruined cheese and soggy fries by now, but it's at least worth an inspection.

"Swan?"

She doesn't look up from the boxes, poking lightly at the golden brown bread with her pinky finger. It's spongy a bit – probably salvageable – but it might just be worth going back downstairs and enduring the disapproving glare from Granny for some fresh sandwiches.

"Yeah?"

"Are you – " He sighs and she looks up, watching as his thumb glances over the curve of his hook. "Are we still – "

He gestures with his hand between them and she smiles, forgetting the formalities and the glossy magazines and focusing instead of the steady thrum of her heart and the way he's looking at her like she is something precious and powerful.

She closes the lid on the grilled cheese and walks back over to him, sliding easily back onto his lap.

"Yeah," she sighs into his lips. "We are still."

(The grilled cheeses end up being a moot point anyway when she yawns against his neck, his chuckle deep and warm against her ear. He tucks her into his arms and pulls her against his chest, whispering into her hair about _running herself into the bloody ground_ as she falls asleep, her toes pressed against his calf.)

(He is adorably disheveled when he first wakes up, eyes squinting into the sunlight as his hand blindly reaches for her and really, formalities are for suckers anyway.)


	2. Chapter 2

_Prompted to write sleepy, grumpy, early-morning Killian. Set at an undetermined point in the future. _

It's early – the sky still grey through the slant of her curtains – the sun and the moon sharing the sky as the stars dim and feeble golden rays break over the horizon. She can only just make out his chaotic sweep of black hair in her dark bedroom, blankets wrapped high over his shoulders, his eyebrows furrowing with a frown as he reaches out between them, sighing with a huff through his nose when his arm curls around her waist.

These are the moments – when her stomach flips and her fingers trace the line of his arm, up to his shoulder and over his back as he shifts and sighs – these are the moments when she thinks she might –

- when she thinks she might love him.

(She _knows_ it – knew it the second he kissed her soft and slow in her pretty pink dress, mending her back together with his fingers in her hair and his heart in her hands.)

She turns on her side and thumbs at his jaw, curling her hand around his neck and scratching there lightly. He frowns and burrows further against her, his nose pressed against her collarbone and his leg tucked between her own.

"S'early." He mumbles, accent thick and gruff pressed against the hollow of her throat. "Sleep."

His hand reaches blindly behind her to pull the blankets higher, wrapping them in a cocoon of warmth and darkness, a precious bubble of body heat as he relaxes again. His hand slips beneath her faded t-shirt to rest against her sleep-warm skin and she shivers, ghosting her lips against his and grinning when he lazily chases after her – uncoordinated and sloppy because a morning person he most certainly is _not_ – and it is in these quiet, soft moments that she wonders how this man was ever captain of a ship.

(But when she thinks of his ship, a sharp pang of _something_ presses against her chest, making it hard to breathe because he _loves_ her – he gave up his _home_ for her.)

"No, no, no." He drags her closer against him, grumbling near incoherently under his breath until his face is buried in a mess of blonde curls and he sighs happily. "Thinking s'not sleeping."

She softens, the tension releasing from her shoulders, watching as a satisfied smile brushes his lips.

And it's no longer a thought, no longer a hesitant whisper at the back of her mind. She_knows_ it, can feel it with every drag of his heavy rings against her skin, with every puff of breath against her shoulder.

She loves him.

"I love you." She whispers.

Both eyes crack open, bleary and unfocused, the startling blue muted beneath the cover of her down comforter. He blinks once – twice – and her heart does its very best to beat right out of her chest, her throat tight as she waits for his response. He stares at her in silent consideration and then lets his eyes slip closed again, a hum caught in the back of his throat.

"Tell me again at a bloody decent hour," He gathers her close, lips brushing over her own in a slightly (just barely) more coordinated maneuver of seduction and grace. "When I can woo you with my words and flirtatious banter."

She snorts into his shoulder, shifting until her back is pressed against his chest, his arm curled tight between her breasts, clasped fingers resting over her heart. She's sure he can feel the stutter when he nudges lightly against the back of her head, his voice a half-asleep whisper.

"I've loved you always."


	3. Chapter 3

**trinkets.**

He finds her at the diner, the box no bigger than a stack of cards heavy in his hand - his thumb dragging back and forth over the worn wooden lid (it is smooth from age and contemplation and he swallows hard, seeking comfort in the familiar gesture). He can hear the trinket inside rattle with every careful step forward and he's suddenly very glad he stashed it inside his coat when he jumped through a portal with a bean in his hand and hope in his heart because there are not many things left that he treasures (blonde hair and green eyes and a smile like the sun), but this - he wants to show her this.

She looks up when he sits down, eyebrows rising high on her forehead and pancakes shoved haphazardly in her mouth. A gentle smile curves her lips as she mumbles out a hello and there is nothing more precious to him than these small, simple moments - when she looks at him soft and gentle and warm and there is syrup sticking to her bottom lip and sunlight caressing her skin. He feels his lips lift in response and places the wooden box in the empty space between them with purpose, sliding it forward with his hook and minimal scratching behind his ear.

(He wants to show her but his stomach is in knots and he's not quite sure how to begin but her eyes dart from the box to his and he knows she understands, can see the understanding dawning in the flush across her skin.)

"I thought - " He scratches again, ducks his head down a bit and focuses on the simple 'L' carved on top of the box. He clears his throat and tries once more, finding strength in the way her fingers curl around the leather of his cuff, fork and pancakes forgotten. "I thought I should show you a bit of my past as well."

She blinks at him silently and then reaches for the box, thumbing at it gently and staring at the medal inside. She picks it up carefully, reverently, and while he thought he couldn't love her more he was clearly lying to himself because his stomach twists and his heart pounds when he sees her smiling at his Naval pin with gentle affection, dimples flashing in her cheeks and eyes shining as her thumb carefully traces the emblem.

"It's not much, but it's what I - "

She cuts him off with her lips on his, one hand still cradling his pin, the other pressed against his chest - over the steady (madly) thrumming of his heart.

"Thank you." She whispers, and he settles, another bit of him finding it's place in the way her hair brushes over his forearm.

(She tastes like sweetness and coffee and _home_ and by gods he is a lucky man.)


	4. Chapter 4

_Prompted to show sleepy, bed-hog Emma._

"Darling, I - " He grunts and shifts on the edge of the bed, turning onto his side quickly as she pushes out with her arm, nearly decking him in the face in her quest to procure another pillow (_his_ pillow). He doesn't know why she _needs_ so many when she's already surrounded by a bloody army of blankets and fluffy monstrosities - a near impenetrable wall forming in the (limited) space between them.

He pulls himself closer to the center of the bed as she mumbles under her breath, curling into herself until only the very ends of her golden strands are visible through the thick material of the comforter. He should consider himself lucky - after all, she _has_ granted him a scant several inches of blanket this evening.

Every night is the same. While they fall into a peaceful slumber pressed against one another shoulder to toes - his arm over her waist (he admits to later using it as a restraint of sorts, hoping against hope that it might keep her bloody _still_) - somewhere in the midst of the night she rouses and makes it her mission to rid him of all comfort.

She shifts and rolls, taking the blanket with her and he sighs, pushing his hand through his hair and staring at the ceiling. Moonlight dances shadows and patterns over the cracked paint peeling in the corner of the room and he traces it with tired eyes, feeling his eyelids droop with every gentle breath of the woman next to him. While she _sounds _complacent, he knows it's only a matter of time until she pushes him right to the floor.

Which, now that he considers it, doesn't seem too terrible an option. She wouldn't be able to kick him in the ribs with him on the hardwood and _gods above_ - think of the _space_.

Yes, the floor is looking like an ideal option tonight, as she turns again, wrapping herself in a cocoon of sorts and giving him a mouthful of vanilla-scented hair. He will just have to explain in the morning that if she wishes for him to stay the night, she needs to _let _him actually sleep. He isn't some sort of novelty for her to just -

"Killian." Slender fingers reach out from under the blankets and press against his chest briefly, dropping to his necklace and tangling there. He can just make out the curve of her jaw from underneath her ridiculous mound of bedding, the way her eyebrows shift and arch - lost in a fantastical dream world. She sighs, a gentle whisper of a breath pressed against the hollow of his throat with another exhalation of his name, and he softens.

"You'll be the death of me, I swear it." Even he can hear the affection overrule the irritation in his tone as he wraps both arms around her middle, tugging her and the entire sodding stock of Storybrooke's linen collection into his chest. She settles with a soft snore, her leg pressed between his, and he finally - _finally_ - drifts to sleep.

(He wakes with the blanket pulled high around his neck, a very apologetic Swan lightly tracing nonsense patterns over his bare shoulder. She lets the blanket slip down around her middle as he blinks open hazy eyes and he follows ivory skin to the swell of breasts, her fingertips already dipping down to graze across his chest, slipping over his abdomen and - oh _yes_ - very apologetic indeed.)

(He finds he needs very little sleep anyway.)


	5. Chapter 5

_The moments in the car, following the big rescue at the ice wall. _

Later she will blame the lingering effects of hypothermia – the cold that pulls at her very bones and causes her thoughts to shoot and scatter before she can get a firm hold. Her tongue feels thick in her mouth and if she could stop her teeth from chattering she would, instead pressing her forehead tighter into soft leather in an effort to calm.

His hand rubs up and down her arms as the truck rumbles through the silent town, her father no doubt breaking various traffic laws to get her back to the loft. He's called ahead for blankets and hot chocolate and she feels like she is in an episode of _ER_ – her mother and little brother and son probably ready to greet them at the door for triage.

(She imagines the baby in a surgical mask and a hysterical laugh bubbles through cracked lips – the thought gone before she can articulate it.)

The blue of Elsa's gown practically glows in the dark of the cab and she has a fleeting thought of stars in the sky – so shiny and bright and hot to the touch. She looks at her hands (clenched tight in the black of his coat and he is warm – so very _warm_) and snorts a weak laugh.

"We match."

He doesn't seem amused by her joke, lips turning down in a frown as he glances at her bruised and numb skin. He presses her hands against his torso with a gentle but insistent jerk and he's warm here too – practically a space heater as she jostles closer – his coat pulled around her as far as he can manage in the confined space.

Her head drops to his shoulder and another thought enters her mind – of an ice cavern and his voice in her ear. She feels like he should know – that he kept her going despite his insistence otherwise (_"Emma, I – I did nothing."_) – she feels like he should at least know this.

(Later, she will blame the cold.)

"I thought of you." She traces his necklace with shaking fingers. She wonders where he got it – if he had it before he was a pirate. "Of your smile."

She can feel him stiffen against her, made all the more noticeable by her violent shaking.

"Is that so?"

And she can hear the grin in his voice.

(Later, she will blame the cold - dismiss the arch in his eyebrow and the light in his eyes with a murmured assurance that she was delirious and out of her mind.)

(But right now – she is so very warm.)


	6. Chapter 6

_Happy Halloween, pumpkin pies!_

**Extra caramel, please.**

His chin drops to her shoulder as she stirs the pot on the stove, his fingers tucking in the space between skin and sweater until goosebumps rise on her arms and her stomach flips with the way his smile curls against her neck. He presses his lips to the erratic pulse in her neck with a happy hum, his beard scratching her skin and _damnit_ – she wants to forget the caramel simmering slow and thick on the stove and press him back – bite at the hollow of his throat until that hum turns into a groan.

"Smells delightful, love." He nuzzles further into her neck and she drops back against his chest, the charms of his necklace biting into her shoulder as she tries to blink through the haze of lust. They haven't done _that_ yet and saying she wants to is probably the understatement of the century. He chuckles into her skin like he knows just what she's thinking (and he probably does, the bastard) and gives her neck one last lingering kiss before peering into the pot.

She smacks his hand away before he can dip a finger in, rolling her eyes at the wounded look he gives her, bottom lip jutted out and all.

"It's hot, you moron."

She flicks off the stove and reaches for the slices of apple in the bowl nearby, remembering how he carefully cut each single one, holding it steady with his hook as he handled the knife – the way he smiled at her, the lines around his eyes crinkling and his dimples flashing when she grabbed his hook and bit at a piece stuck on the end, whispering something about_bad form_ while his tongue did something absolutely indecent against his teeth.

She grabs a slice and dips it carefully into the caramel, cupping her hand beneath it and turning in his arms until she can hold it in front of his mouth. He arches an eyebrow in silent consideration but she's insistent, bumping it against his lips with a snicker under her breath until he crumbles, opening his mouth and biting down against the candy covered fruit.

She finishes off the rest of the piece as he chews carefully, the light in his stupid blue eyes telling her he loves it, but the set of his jaw saying he's going to be a stubborn jackass about it. No matter, because there's a bit of caramel clinging to his bottom lip and –

She hauls him to her with a fist in his shirt, her lips closing over his bottom lip, her tongue finding the spot of caramel with startling accuracy. He groans against her when her teeth scrape and tongue savors and _this_ is better than caramel apples any day. His hook presses cold against her hip as his lips chase hers and they fall into something sticky and sweet, his hand carding through her hair as he changes the tempo of her kiss – falling into something smooth and slow – thick like the caramel sitting carefully off to the side.

His nose bumps against hers and she watches the smile curl his lips. "I think I like this tradition."

His voice is husky and he tastes sweet and spicy, her fingers tangled in the soft material of the flannel she made him buy, the wind whipping at the glass of the windows and a fire crackling in the living room. She's wearing a pair of socks she stole from her father and she has never felt more at home – here with him and caramel kisses as the moon hangs low in the sky. She traces the dimple that lingers in his cheek with her thumb and rests her forehead against his chin, sighing when his arm slips around her waist, his fingers finding the space between skin and sweater once again.

"I thought you might."


	7. Chapter 7

_The first (real, weather-induced) snowfall of the year, a puffer jacket with a fur hood, and an insistent pirate. Fluff ahead, folks._

**A different kind of magic.**

There are plenty of things she would rather be doing than standing huddled in the middle of the street in front of her house, Killian staring steadfast at the sky with intense concentration while she shivers uncontrollably in the sweater he forced her into before shoving her right out the front door. It's still dark, a brisk wind blowing in off the bay, and she would much rather be buried in her heap of blankets and pillows, a pirate pressed tight to her back, blissfully _asleep_.

She crosses her arms tighter across her chest, fisting the arms of her sweater (it's his sweater, but she tends to wear it more than he does and she can be a pirate too when she spies some booty worth looting and this sweater is _waffle knit_) over her hands as she shifts back and forth to get the blood moving. She looks around them at the empty street, noting that even the wildlife has deemed it too early to rise, and sighs, poking him lightly in the chest.

"Where are the bodies?"

His head snaps down from his perusal of the sky, dark eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What?"

She rocks back and forth on her heels, resisting the urge to start doing jumping jacks because it's _cold_. "I assume the reason you brought me out of my warm bed and into the cold street is because there is an emergency and yet – I see no carnage."

He huffs out a laugh, a small cloud of white in the space between them. "Your optimism is thrilling, love." One eyebrow arches high on his forehead as he takes in her shivering form and he unzips his jacket without hesitation, hauling her forward and pressing her forcibly against his chest – another efficient zip closing her in against him. It's ridiculous and cramped, but he is warm so she wraps her arms around his waist and presses her face into his neck, choosing to ignore the fact that they are standing in the middle of the street at 4:38 am on a Tuesday, zipped together in his jacket like some bizarre burrito.

"This jacket is stupid." She mutters against his skin and she doesn't have to see his face to know he's indignant.

"It is no such thing." His voice takes on the same tone as _why are you wearing that_ and she muffles a snicker in the collar of his t-shirt. "Do you know how useful such a garment would have been on the Jolly? Bloody magnificent, it is. I hardly feel a chill."

She snorts and squirms closer, her feet pressed between his. "Oh yeah, real fearsome pirate captain you'd be, with your fur hood and puffer jacket."

She imagines it for a second – Killian on the deck of his ship, blue eyes fierce and intense – swaddled in his favorite bright green puffer jacket, fur hood snug around his windswept hair. She can't muffle the laugh this time.

"You are less than pleasant when I rouse you from sleep."

"Then don't rouse me from sleep." She presses a silent apology against the hollow of his throat with her lips and he sighs, resting his head against hers. "Seriously, though. Why are we out here?"

He's quiet for a beat and when she pulls back, his eyes are back to scanning the skies, boyish grin lighting his face. It makes her stomach flip when he smiles like that – eye shining and dimples flashing deep in his cheeks.

(It makes her stomach flip when he does a lot of things – but she keeps that to herself, most of the time.)

"It's going to snow." He whispers and she rolls her eyes, groaning and burying her face back in his neck. His laughter shakes her against him and she nips at his skin with her teeth.

"We haven't had enough snow and ice in our lifetime?"

His fingers press against the small of her back between the thick material of his coat, running up her spine and back down again. His lips brush against her forehead and she can practically feel his smile, sending a flash of warmth from the place where his lips are to the tips of her toes.

"Oh no, my love." _That_ sends another pulse of heat through her and she smiles to herself, gripping him to her a bit harder. "This is a different sort of magic entirely."

"And it won't be here in a couple hours? You know, like a normal time?"

He heaves a bone weary sigh – the same kind of noise he makes when she makes a crack about his age, or when David makes a snickering remark about his eyeliner. One gloved hand works its way between them and then he's tilting her chin up to meet his gaze, blue eyes serious and leaning just a bit towards annoyed.

"Perhaps I just wanted to kiss you in the first snowfall of the year. Perhaps, love – " His head dips down low and his nose bumps against hers, his breath spicy and sweet against her lips. "Perhaps I wanted to know what you taste like – with snowflakes in your hair and the stars in your eyes." He presses the softest of kisses against her lips, pulling away before she can haul him (more) forcibly against her. "Perhaps I wanted to give you a good memory of the snow and ice."

"Oh." She feels just a bit breathless at that, happy for the close quarters so he doesn't notice the literal weak in the knees that little speech has given her. But she's sure he feels the way her heart is pounding a staccato against her ribcage, pressed together the way they are.

"Hmm, yes. _Oh_." His smug smile assures her that yes, he's very much aware. "Now if you're quite done, the snow has begun and I wish to kiss you."

He doesn't give her the opportunity to respond this time, just tips her head back with his gloved hand in her hair and presses his lips to hers – sweet and soft with just a touch of the hunger that always seems to simmer beneath the surface. She sways into him and matches the tilt of his head with one of her own, deepening the kiss with a whimper and sigh as little pinpricks of cold land on her cheeks – the first (real, non-magical) snowfall of the year in Storybrooke.

He pulls back and lingers in her space, nose brushing her cheek as his hand curves around her neck. "Shall we head back inside?"

She shakes her head, pulling him back down to her with her fingers tangled around his necklace.

"Not yet."


	8. Chapter 8

_Killian and Emma and a failed attempt at true love's kiss. Angst and smut and a happy ending because I am weak. - Rated M._

**If you're not the one.**

There is no flash of white when his lips meet hers, no pulse of electric heat that starts in her toes and rolls up through her stomach, pushing outwards and ending this terrible curse. There is no break to the storm that rages wild and chaotic around them, whipping the ends of her hair and biting against her skin, fingertips pressed tight against the back of his neck as he continues to kiss her.

There is nothing.

-/-

"It didn't work." She mutters quietly when they're in the bug, driving in silence back into town. She can feel his eyes burning a hole in the side of her head, his hand twitching lightly in his lap, but she's too focused on the anxiety swelling in her gut - the startling realization that what they have - whatever it is that's between them - it isn't _true_.

(Her parents found true love - Regina and Gold and Ella and Aurora and _god_ - it seems like it's just not meant for her.)

(She thinks of the way he smiles in the early light of dawn, the way his hair sticks up in messy clumps when he first picks his head up from the pillow. She thinks of the way he presses his nose into her bare shoulder and slides his fingers down the ridges of her spine, whispering secrets and promises and hopes and dreams into the soft skin beneath her ear, another grin pressed in the space above her heart when she answers with his name.)

He sighs and turns back towards the window, resting his head against the thick glass.

"No, love." Her stomach drops at the quiet acceptance in his voice. "It didn't."

-/-

He is angry as he presses her into the door with his hips, the fire raging behind his eyes nothing compared to the way his teeth are working a mark into her neck. He is relentless in his pursuit to make her grind out his name, a whispered and desperate order to do so with every thrust of his hips against hers.

"Come now, Swan." His teeth drag along the column of her throat, his tongue soothing the burn as his hook presses lightly into the jut of her hip. "I know you better than that."

She pushes him back until his foot catches on the rug and he stumbles - because she can be angry too (and she is so angry - angry and hurt and broken and breaking and _why_ - why couldn't it be him). He falls onto the bed with a muffled curse and then she's climbing on top of him, wrenching his belt free until she can reach his button and yes -

His head drops back as her fingers find him hot and heavy, wrapping around his straining length as he shudders beneath her.

After all, if she's learned anything in her life, it's that you don't need true love to make a man moan your name.

-/-

His fingers trace patterns across her skin in the moonlight, his face cast in shadows as she watches the line of his jaw. She watches as it clenches and then releases, his sigh pressing in the hollow of her chest, tightening against her lungs until she can't breathe.

"Emma," the use of her first name almost does her in, reserved for emergencies and heartfelt declarations and she doesn't like the waver in his tone one bit. "Just because it didn't - "

He sighs again, and she counts the frantic beats of her heart magnified by his hesitation. His face tilts towards hers and she bites her bottom lip, his thumb carefully urging her to release it.

"Just because it isn't true, doesn't mean I don't - "

"Yeah." She turns her head to look at the ceiling - traces the cracks and pretends her heart isn't breaking. "Yeah, me too."

(And maybe this is why they aren't true - because the both of them are too splintered and broken to say the words - to acknowledge what they have.)

(She's too afraid.)

(He's too broken.)

(It's not enough.)

-/-

He takes her hard on the floor of his rented room at Granny's, fucking into her with abandon, his muffled grunts in her shoulder making her eyes burn as she arches her back and begs for more. She can feel him as he practically wills it to be true, as he clings to her in silent desperation, his fingers pressing bruises into her hips (a silent claim on her body and soul - to have her always).

After, she doesn't meet his gaze as she crawls into the bed.

"Nothing has to change." He whispers.

(Everything already has.)

-/-

He holds her hand as they wait in the middle of the town for the Ice Queen, his thumb rubbing back and forth over her knuckles. She feels his strength slowly ebb into her, his calm confidence and his silent determination as they stand together, shoulder to shoulder.

_If this isn't true_, she thinks as he presses a kiss to her palm, blue eyes smiling as the winds begin to pick up,_ then what is?_

-/-

They get separated almost immediately, and as she rounds the corner back to the main part of town, she knows without a doubt it was all part of the Ice Queen's plan.

He is still and unmoving in front of the Sheriff's station, flat on his back with his arm crossed over his abdomen.

Everything stops.

(Everything moves too fast.)

She's on her knees at his side without knowing how she got there, hands shaking as she brushes her fingertips over his forehead. He winces, and she breathes.

"Killian? Oh god - " There is a gash in his stomach, blood sticky and warm against his button up, and when she presses against it with the flat of her palm, he breathes in sharp through his teeth. He blinks open his eyes slowly, like he can't quite manage it, and panic claws at her throat.

_No._

"You're so beautiful." He slurs. His hand slides forward until his fingertips brush her own, his rings heavy against her knuckles as he tangles their hands together with sloppy and uncoordinated movements. "Do you think - " He licks his lips and blinks his eyes back open, tilting his head to the side as he regards her. "Do you think you could kiss me?"

"I can't – " She heaves in a deep breath, cursing the tears that gather at the corners of her eyes. Of all the people she's saved, of all the times her magic has worked - why can't it be for_this_? "I can't save you."

"S'not what I meant, love. I don't need – " He winces and shifts, lifting his hand to curl in the ends of her hair. He stares at the golden strands twisted around his fingers with a small grin and then his eyes blink back to hold hers, the usual brilliant blue muted and he's slipping away – with every shaking breath, he's falling further away from her. "I don't need the savior. I just need you – just Emma."

He tugs carefully on her hair until her nose is pressed against his, her teardrops falling onto his skin and leaving trails of her devastation across his cheeks. He hushes her quietly, thumb slipping across her skin, and _god_ – if this isn't true then what is?

"Just a kiss." He whispers.

"I'm too broken." She sobs, pressing her forehead against his. If she's not going to save him, he should at least know it was her and not him - that she is the reason they never stood a chance. Her fingers search along his neck until she can feel the thin beat of his pulse, barely there beneath her touch. She presses her palm to it, hands slick with his blood, and wills it to stay. "I can't save you."

The irony of it all would make her laugh if she wasn't too busy breaking - the product of true love unable to find any of her own.

"Please, just – " His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, a wheezing breath brushed against her lips. "Kiss me." He grins, wide and stupid and he shouldn't be able to make her stomach flip when he's bleeding out in the street, but -

"I want to kiss you."

_One last time._

She hears what he's not saying (the stupid, stubborn man – unwilling to upset her even when she's laying on top of him, holding him together with her hand pressed against broken and torn skin) and nods, brushing her nose against his and cupping his jaw. She runs her thumb along the scar on his cheek (just as she always does) and breathes out his name (just as she always does), leaning forward until she can press her lips to his.

He sighs into her (just as he always does) and threads his fingers through her hair (just as he always does), chasing her lips with his own, nipping lightly on her bottom lip with his teeth.

There is no flash of white when his lips meet hers, no pulse of electric heat that starts in her toes and rolls up through her stomach, pushing outwards and ending this terrible curse.

There is only a deep pull in her bones, screaming in her ears –

And then there is nothing.

-/-

She wakes confused, her eyelids heavy as she stirs in her bed. There's a buzzing in her head that radiates out to her limbs and when she remembers what happened (Killian – _god_,Killian) she sits up abruptly, the vertigo only getting worse with the abrupt movement.

"Easy, darling."

She gasps when her gaze lands on him, standing at the edge of the bed, nursing a cup of coffee in his hand. They blink at each other silently and she can't help it when –

"Am I dead?"

His chuckle sounds real enough – warm and rich and deep and making her stomach do that thing it always does when he's around.

"No, my love." His tongue curls around the word – lingers – and she knows there's a significance in the action but she can't quite catch her breath enough to get her brain to work. He's supposed to be dead. She watched him die. "You're not dead. It would seem – " He sets his coffee mug down on the blanket chest, eyes impossibly soft, a smile flirting with the corners of his lips. He steps forward until he can sit on the bed next to her, his hand brushing her hair carefully behind her ears.

"It would seem, darling, that the third time's the charm."


	9. Chapter 9

_Emma can tell something is wrong, and Killian hates himself a bit more each day. A little bit of angst. Spoilers for last night's episode. _

**What's Mine**

She asks him what's wrong with her fingers fisted tight in the collar of his coat, her breath puffing sweet against his lips. She asks him what's wrong and he can see the way her eyebrows furrow – the confusion in those big, green, beautiful eyes of hers.

(And he knows he's already broken a promise – broken several but this is the most important one. He told her she didn't have to worry about him, that he excels at surviving, but his heart is lost and he's made a deal with the devil and the interest is being collected in full and he can't do this – he can't _break_ her like he promised not to.)

He forces a smile and memorizes the way her hair falls against the apple of her cheek, the way her breath hitches when he glides his hand against her spine.

He tells her everything is fine, and hates himself a little bit more.

-/-

She asks him again when they're alone in his room and he has her pressed up against the door, his tongue tracing his adoration in to the soft skin below her ear as her hips press against his. She whispers it out on a whimper followed by a moan when his hips circle back into hers and he's sure he's never heard a more beautiful sound – the way Emma Swan breathes out when she _wants_.

"Killian," her fingers card though his hair and press into his neck, her thigh hitching up and around his hip with a gentle nudge from his hook. "Killian, what's wrong?"

He rests his forehead in the crook of her neck as he struggles to control his breathing, to quell the storm that is humming in his blood. He wants to tell her everything, but more than that he wants to feel her all around him – her blonde hair brushing against his skin, her sighs and sounds pressed into the place where his heart should be. He knows his time is limited and he is a selfish bastard of a man, but if he is to die, he wants to know what it feels like to love this woman.

(He tells himself he still loves without his heart, but nothing aches in his chest when she smiles and he does not feel the singing in his bones when she laughs. Everything is ash in his mouth and he only burns with hatred – at the Crocodile, yes – but with himself more so than anything at all.)

(He _knew_ better.)

Her fingers are gentle against his cheek, tracing the line of his scar as her eyes search his.

"You can tell me."

There is a sharp pain in his chest and no – no, he cannot tell her.

The Crocodile will not allow it.

-/-

"What is it? Please, Killian," her eyes are wide and glassy and she is already breaking because of him, crumbling as she stands before him. "Just –" She breathes in deep, a desperate broken sounding thing, and he winces. "Tell me."

When he doesn't answer, she shuffles closer, pressing him into a corner so that he cannot escape. Her eyes turn fierce and she grabs him roughly by his jacket.

"You promised." She shakes him and he lets her, her fist slamming hard into his shoulder. This is better, he thinks idly, this is good that she hates him now, that he has driven her to this. Maybe she will not care when his heart is crushed to dust, and he can save her the anguish of leaving her behind just like all the rest.

(He was supposed to be _different_.)

The sudden pull in his chest makes his eyes widen, his body moving before he can even comprehend what is happening. His strings are being tugged by their careless master, and when he takes a strong step forward and wraps his hand around her wrist, he is terrified.

"Perhaps my affections have – " The words are not his own and he clamps his mouth shut, horrified, because he will _not_. He will not push her away like this.

There is a burning, fierce pain in his chest as he fights back – blackness ebbing at the corners of his vision, clouding her face and the tears that shine bright in her eyes. The pain brings him to his knees and he tries to warn her but the words stick in his throat, an invisible force holding him down.

Her gasp of understanding does not ease the ache, nor does her palm pressed flat over his chest. He knows she feels nothing (gods he always feels _nothing_ and there is a time he wished for this fate but he cannot bear it, not now) and her lips tug into a thin line, a flash in her gaze the only acknowledgement of his condition.

"Perhaps my affections," the words are like knives in his throat, shards of glass tearing him apart from the inside out. "Perhaps my affections have changed."

She considers him with the same careful gaze and then her face lights up, her smile toothy and wide in the darkness of the room. It is brilliant and _everything_ and still, he feels nothing.

"Your delivery needs work, Gold." He is sure if he had a heart, it would be thumping painfully in his chest. She curls her fingers in the material of his shirt, beautiful in her ferocity.

"I'm coming for what's mine."


	10. Chapter 10

**Anonymous said:** If you are taking prompts - after Killian gets his heart back, Emma develops the habit of listening to it beat in his chest. Thank you

-/-

She allows herself to do it only when he's asleep – chest rising and falling gently, his dark hair a chaotic sweep against her white cotton pillowcase, his eyelashes brushing the apples of his cheeks as he murmurs her name and shifts closer. She allows herself to press her palm flat against his chest, fingertips tapping lightly against his collarbone, and feel the steady thump of his heart.

It is steady and strong beneath the shaking of her hand and more often times than not it is what lulls her to sleep.

(Sometimes, when she is feeling particularly sneaky and particularly anxious, she will slip her fingers loosely around his wrist and press against the delicate, soft skin that hides arteries and veins. The beat is thinner there, softer, but it still calms her the second she feels the flutter against her fingertips.)

She's just smoothing her hand over his chest when he stirs, hand cupping her elbow as he shifts further into her, pulling her closer like he always does.

"What're you doing, love?" His voice is rough and deep when he first wakes up and it does something stupid to her stomach, color rising high on her cheeks when she thinks of another time his voice sounds like that (her legs tight around his hips, his eyes so _blue_ as he moves above her and against her).

She tries to pull her hand back but his grip is sure and his eyes are heavy-lidded but open and she had her time when she resisted him fully but not anymore. She relaxes and drops her forehead against his chin.

"I just wanted to feel it." She whispers.

There is a moment when his entire body tenses and she thinks she's done something terribly wrong but then he's rolling, pulling her above him and crushing her close. Her cheek rests right against his heart and when his hand slides between them, pressing against her in an awkward tangle of limbs and angles, she sighs.

"I know the feeling well, love."

She closes her eyes and listens to the steady thump, and imagines hers must sound the same.


	11. Chapter 11

"This isn't quite what I thought you meant when you asked me to coffee, darling."

He grins at her as he swings his arm over her shoulder, careful to keep the hot edges of his takeout cup away from direct contact. She chuckles under her breath, a wisp of white escaping her lips as they walk down the sidewalk, and he tugs her just a bit closer.

She doesn't mind.

(If she closes her eyes and breathes in deep she imagines she can feel his heart beat through the leather and layers, a steady thrum of life and hope and happiness and _love_ beating between them.)

"Your brain lives in the gutter." She retorts and he slows to a stop next to her, removing his arm from around her shoulders and gliding his hook into her belt loop in one calculated motion. She would roll her eyes if her breath wasn't caught in her chest, the heat starting low in her belly and spreading out with the way he's looking at her. Honestly, the man is too god damned smooth for his own good sometimes.

(Definitely hers - definitely too damn smooth for her own good.)

"Regardless of what sewer appropriations my mind resides," His grin is wide and his eyes are shining and she wonders how it took her so long to notice he was missing his heart, before, when Gold was pulling the strings and she almost lost him. She wonders how she didn't notice the lack of _light_ behind his eyes, the way his heart shines through with every tilt of his head (idiot). "I know you did not invite me back to your dwelling for a beverage."

He slides into her space with a tug of his hook, the tip of his nose brushing hers, her stomach flipping pleasantly with the way his breath washes warm over her lips. She can smell the coffee on him - the sickeningly sweet hazelnut-latte-whatever he insisted on getting because the man has a sweet tooth the size of Maine - and when he drops his head down she rises up on her toes to meet his lips.

It is gentle with the lingering heat she has come to expect from him - and when he tilts his head and traces her bottom lip with his tongue, she lets him, sighing into his mouth and gripping tight at the charms around his neck. She tugs impatiently, suddenly wishing very much so for the other type of coffee, and he grins against her lips like he knows just what she's thinking (and he probably does, the bastard).

"What say we take our coffee back to my room, aye?" His smirk is nothing short of sinful and she nips at his bottom lip before dropping back to the flats of her feet, sipping at her americano and pushing past his shoulder.

"Why do you think I got it to go?"


	12. Chapter 12

_Little baby bit about Emma making sounds because it ruins me in the best way. _

-/-

There's this noise she makes when she's just on the brink, her thighs shaking on either side of his hips (or his head, depending on the day, depending on her _hunger_), her fingers clawing marks into the bare skin of his back as she does her best to reach that peak, pushing her hips up and into him, chasing her pleasure like the demanding minx she is. It is utterly _depraved_ in its desperation, the way she sounds when she's just about to come for him - a high pitched whimper of his name and then she is falling, spiraling downwards with a half-smile on her face and filth in her gaze, golden hair tumbling over the pillows in the moonlight like the purest of sands.

He doesn't rest until he gets it, until she makes that sound just for him in the stillness of her bedroom, cataloguing it in his memory right along with the way her breathing changes when he thumbs at her breast, with the way she bites back a moan when he kisses the place behind her ear. Sometimes she will even beg him with little whispers of _please_ and _more_ and these are the nights he is most relentless – holding her hip with bruising force as he drives into her again and again – her steady chant of _yes, yes, god, yes_ only adding to the heat that surges through his blood and rattles his bones.

Sometimes she is greedy for the noises he makes as well – the growls that rumble through his chest when she pushes him flat on his back, not even bothering to remove her clothing fully before settling overtop him, hips rocking a maddening rhythm. Sometimes she bites at his collarbone until he curses, her smile bright and wide as she tosses her head back, soothing the burning skin with her tongue as she rides him into oblivion and drives him mad with the way her skin shimmers and glows.

But it is the sounds she makes after that he cherishes most – the whispered secrets in their cocoon of warmth, bodies huddled together, pleasantly sore and sated. It's the way she brushes her lips against the hollow of his throat with a happy hum, her fingers closing tight over the charms of his necklace. It's the way she whispers _I love you_ against his lips until he grins, draping his arm around her waist until she is flush against him and the heat begins all over again, his heart a steady thump between them – matching the beat of her own.

That is the sound he cherishes most.


	13. Chapter 13

_Baby bit about hearts being returned. _

-/-

It's easier than she thought it would be.

He's swaying with exhaustion in his room at Granny's – his eyes heavy-lidded as she carefully pushes his heart back through his chest, gliding it into the hollow space it belongs, a small grunt of discomfort the only sort of reaction from him. It's easier than she thought and she wonders if that's how it's always supposed to go or if it's because it's _her_ and _him_ and the _whatever it is _between them.

(She knows exactly what it is – knows without a doubt because she recognized the falling in her stomach when she saw him on his knees in front of Gold, recognized the way her heart beat out against the inside of her rib cage – calling for him, pleading for him to just _come back to her_.)

(She loves him. She knows this.)

He blinks slowly as she removes her hand from his chest, the light coming back slowly but surely – a lazy, tired grin curling his lips. There are bags under his eyes and she's not quite sure she's ever seen him look worse, but still he smiles, reaching for her with his hook and wrapping it snug around her waist.

She can't help it when she presses her hand flat against his chest, feeling the steady thrum beneath her palm.

"S'good to see you, love." He slurs and he is definitely about to fall asleep standing up, his forehead dropping heavy against her own, shifting back and forth as she struggles to hold him up. His thumb traces the indent of her chin and _god_ – she didn't know what was different before but she can feel it now – the affection in his gestures, the way he wears his heart on his sleeve with every gentle smile and bump of his nose.

"We should get you to sleep." She murmurs in response but he shakes his head, threading his fingers back through her hair until he can cup her head, angling her chin up and capturing her lips with his. He sighs into her, a happy, peaceful sound and when she pulls away, his eyes are glassy and –

(And she definitely loves him.)

"There it is." His voice is rough and broken and he releases the back of her head to put his hand over hers, pressing their interlaced fingers down firmly over his chest. "I missed the way it feels when I kiss you."

"Yeah," she reaches up so she can press her lips to his again, eyes burning because there was a moment when she thought she wouldn't get to feel this again – the way his lips curl at the corners when she knocks her knees with his, the soft groan that echoes in his throat when she skims her teeth over his bottom lip.

"Yeah, I missed it too."


	14. Chapter 14

_Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! I hope you all have the very best days, filled with apple pie and strong alcoholic beverages._

_-/-_

The man is ridiculous at best with the pie, fussing over it for half the morning before she finally gets frustrated enough to peek over his shoulder and see just what he's up to.

"Oh, woah." She stares down at the intricate crust that overlays the cinnamon apple filling, twisted braids of dough spun together in a delicate weaving pattern. She's pretty sure she couldn't do that with two hands, and she blinks down at the pie for several silent moments. "That's, uh, pretty intense there, Martha."

He gives her his patented I-have-no-clue-what-you're-talking-about-but-I'm-going-to-pretend-it-doesn't-bother-me eyebrow arch, shifting back slightly so she has a better view of his handiwork. She rests her chin on his shoulder, inhaling the sweetness of cinnamon and sugar that clings to his skin, and presses a kiss on his neck. She's still getting used to it – the way she just falls into him, this casual sort of intimacy – but when he smiles that grin that crinkles his eyes, humming happily in his throat, she can't say she minds.

"Is this Martha a renowned baker in your realm?" His fingers trail back and forth over her forearm, leaving little trails off flour and goose bumps in their wake, and she snorts.

"Renowned baker and former fugitive – I feel like you fit the bill." She pushes away from his back and turns him in her arms until she can get a good look at him, smiling at the little smudges of flour on his cheek and in his hair, a streak of white amongst the jet black.

"I was a pirate, darling." He tries to fight his smile when she works at the mark on his cheek with her thumb, anchoring his hook against her hip. "Not a fugitive."

"Po-tay-to, po-tah-to." She sighs and drops her hand to his shoulder, his blue eyes twinkling as he looks at her from under his lashes. He looks a devastating combination of handsome and adorable – standing here with the remnants of a pie smeared across him – and not for the first time, she feels her stomach do that happy little flip.

"You're supposed to give thanks today, you know."

That stupid eyebrow arches high on his head.

"Aye, I assumed that's the reason for the day's namesake."

She resists the urge to flick him in the nose, instead settling for resting her hand against his neck, thumb grazing the hollow of his throat. While the casual intimacy is easier, this – voicing the way he makes her feel – this is still the hard part.

"I'm thankful for you, for, uh – " His eyes soften, his hook pulling her closer until their knees bump together and she can hardly look at him without going cross-eyed. She swallows hard, and wishes she had his way with words. "I'm just thankful for you."

He meets her halfway when she rises on her toes to kiss him, the cinnamon on his tongue telling her he was definitely swiping bits of apple from the pie. His hand anchors in her hair and there is a brief moment when she worries about bits of dough in her curls, but then he tilts his head to kiss her harder and all is lost.

His nose bumps hers when he pulls away, his smile crooked and wide. "I'm thankful for you as well." His hand slides down her back and settles over the curve of her ass with a gentle squeeze. "Also, I'm thankful for this realm's delightful garments – particularly the black lace – "

This time she does swat him in the chest.

"Do me a favor and keep that one to yourself at dinner tonight, alright?"

(He does, and she rewards him with that black lace when they get home, his muffled groan pressed against her skin in the quiet stillness of her bedroom.)


	15. Chapter 15

**drops of gum.**

He doesn't understand the need for the small structures made of cookie and candy, nor does he understand why David is quite so feverish over the whole process (muttering under his breath as he places another one of the miniature canes striped white and red as some sort of guide post for the blasted thing) – but he does enjoy the way Emma licks at her bottom lip as she concentrates, golden strands of hair tickling his arm as she leans over him for one of the brightly colored (he does not understand this realms sustenance – he does _not_) drops of gum.

"They're gumdrops, Killian. Christ."

He grins and curls a wayward strand of hair around his finger, tugging lightly as he leans back in his chair, the mug of coffee handed to him balanced with his hook on his knee. The loft is pleasantly warm, soft music humming from the tiny box set up on the end of the table, and he's not quite sure he's ever felt more at peace.

"Apologies, m'lady." The soft curling of her lips she gives him in response only cements that feeling, and he revels in the steady beat of his heart in his chest, the way it stutters when she brushes her fingertips over the inside of his wrist. Her eyes shine in understanding, hand curling around his arm so that her palm is flat against his pulse point, and she sighs – leaning forward and pressing her lips to his in a way that has his heart doing another erratic dance against his rib cage. Her laughter tastes like cinnamon and sweetness, and he suddenly wishes very much so that they happened to be in that brand new apartment she just secured, doors locked and skin bare and –

"Emma, your house is falling apart."

The harsh edges of David's voice are hardly subtle and Emma pulls away with a roll of her eyes, falling back into her chair next to him and focusing intently on her cookie dwelling. He fixes his gaze on David with a smirk and an arch of his eyebrow, making a show of sipping at his coffee and gesturing to the poor excuse of a home the prince is concocting out of desserts.

"It looks as if your abode is tilting slightly to the right."

David blinks quickly, looking down at the smattering of icing, candy, and cookies in dismay. He frowns and prods lightly at one side with his index finger, pushing against what looks to be the enforcing wall of the structure as a whole. Honestly, he would have chosen a sturdier base than the licorice strips Swan seems so fond of, but no one asked his opinion and a man with a hook isn't much of a builder.

"No it's not."

"I assure you, it is."

Emma studiously ignores the both of them as she carefully places tiny circular chocolates around the perimeter of her creation, Henry snickering under his breath as he ignores the process altogether, instead using his building materials as snack and rocking his uncle's crib with his foot. Snow is somewhere in the kitchen hiding a smile no doubt (she has grown fond of him over the past few weeks, as much as she tries to deny it) and David is much too easy to torment.

"Perhaps if you had used the miniature canes to enforce your structure rather than decorative nonsense, the blasted thing would – "

"Every home needs a lamp post!"

"It's a sodding house made of cookie. What good is a lamp post if it can't even be inhabited by – "

"Oh and what you made is so much better."

He looks down at the remnants of his own creation in front of him, grinning wide and picking it up with careful fingers. He thrusts it in front of David's face with as much smug pretention as he can muster while carefully cradling a gingerbread ship, delighting in the way David's face falls.

Emma groans next to him as she no doubt spies the miniature Swan at the helm, and his smile only tugs wider.

"You're an idiot." She tells him, but he can see the way her cheeks glow pink, and the pleased smile that is threatening to break through any moment. In fact he is so distracted with the way she's looking at him that he doesn't notice David swiping the ship from his palm, slamming it down on the table until there is nothing but crumbs, looking appropriately ashamed when Snow gasps from the kitchen.

He doesn't understand this tradition, but he very much enjoys the way Emma flicks one of the tiny red pieces at her father, her hand slipping in his and her lips soft against his neck.


	16. Chapter 16

The tears on her face remind him of the sea beneath the sun - terrifying in it's beauty - and he imagines if he had his heart it would be beating madly in his chest, his fingers clenching and unclenching at his side as she quickly makes her way over to him. She tries to be angry - he knows this because her cheeks are flushed and there is fire in her eyes - but there is fear too, and he traces the lines of her face desperately because if this is it, the last moment, then he will damn well remember the brush of her hair against her cheeks and the feel of her fingers clenched tight in his jacket.

He wants to tell her he loves her.

He wants to tell her with a desperation he hasn't known in years but he bites it back because she doesn't deserve this. She doesn't deserve to be told she is loved by a man with no heart - with a death sentence hanging over his head. He certainly doesn't deserve her and her frantic kisses pressed against his lips, her mouth molding to his with a whimper and a whine as she tucks herself fully into him. It's different kissing her without his heart - there is no rush of blood in his ears that makes him feel like he's in a bloody hurricane, no flip in his stomach that tells him he's caught in her riptide - just a hollow thrum in his chest that counts out the moments he has left. He is a man on borrowed time, and he will not add to her suffering. Not tonight.

He will not tell her he loves her like this.

(He will not tell her he loves her.)

He presses kisses against the corner of her lips, the curve of her jaw, the space beneath her ear and the slope of her shoulder. He allows himself to breathe in the warm honey scent of her hair and when he closes his eyes, he sees the future he will never have in the way she clings to him still (with the way her fingertips brush against his neck and _gods - )_.

His goodbye is like sand on his tongue and it is not enough - it will never be enough - but it will have to do because the curse is coming and just as he will not break her with the words he cannot feel, he will also not cause her harm with the worst version of himself. She has made him a changed man and he will not allow the wretched pirate to be the last she sees of him. That will not be her lasting memory once the Crocodile crushes his heart to dust.

He tells her goodbye, and wishes there could be more.

He walks away, and clenches his fist at his side.

He watches the curse come, and imagines her smile.

(He will not tell her he loves her, but he will bloody well think it until his last breath.)


	17. Chapter 17

She can see his slumped shoulders as he leans back against her desk through the plexiglass window, the exhaustion that lines his movements as he slowly bends his neck back and forth. He hasn't been sleeping, she can see it in the deep circles under his eyes and the way he shuffles his steps just a bit slower these days, and there is nothing she wants more than to drag him by his collar to the nearest bed, bolt the door, and sleep for the foreseeable future.

But there's a curse coming, and the Savior never rests.

The tears are fresh on her cheeks as she makes her way over to him, the concern in those big blue eyes of his making her stomach do the stupid flip it always does whenever he looks at her like that. Her hands reach for him before she even makes the decision to, and when his fingers card through her hair, his chin tucked against her shoulder, she finally relaxes.

"You can stay here, you know."

He snorts out a laugh, pulling back slightly so he can smile down at her - tense and wrong and worried as he wipes the tears from her cheeks. She's reminded of another time, where her tears were from relief instead of fear, and his eyes had been so very soft in the moonlight.

(If she closes her eyes, she can pretend. If she closes her eyes, maybe this will all go away.)

"This curse brings out our worst selves, darling. I'd rather not be around the parents of the woman I'm courting." He smirks, and her lips curl the slightest bit in response. "I'll be at the docks."

Something flashes behind his eyes but she doesn't linger on it, instead thumbing at his jaw and shuffling further into him. He sits on the edge of her desk and pulls her between his legs, sighing when she rests her forehead against his chin.

"After this is done, do you think we could do some courting in private? You know, with a locked door. Maybe thousands of miles away from here?" She presses her fingertips against his collarbone, memorizing the way it feels when his breath stutters in his chest. There are things left unspoken in the air between them, and yet neither of them move to acknowledge it, content with the easy way his thumb brushes against the soft skin beneath her ear, with the way her knees bump against his as she sways between his legs. She can _feel_ it - a gentle hum in her bones that pulsates in time with the harsh beat of her heart - and when his hooked arm pulls her just a bit closer, mouth ducking down to meet hers, everything (Snow Queens and curses and missing memories and her parents just across the way) disappears.

It starts soft, careful brushes of his lips against hers until a groan catches in the back of her throat, her hand sliding against his neck and into his hair, carding through the thick black and scratching lightly as his scalp. He echoes her groan with one of his own and when his hooked arm urges her closer, she does so willingly, his tongue slipping against her own in a desperate dance that has her panting for more.

She wishes he didn't have to lock himself up.

She wishes she could stay with him.

She wishes there was more time.

She wishes -

He pulls back and she keeps her eyes closed, listening to his harsh breathing and anchoring herself with the way he feels beneath her hands. The leather of his jacket is buttery soft and she can taste the rum on his lips, the coffee he must have had this morning. He presses a kiss against her forehead and she shuts her eyes tighter, the familiar burn behind her closed lids a welcome distraction as he carefully maneuvers out of her arms.

"Be safe, Emma." He whispers, and she tries not to shatter, tries not to fall to pieces with the way his voice breaks on her name. "Goodbye, my love."

(It isn't until her and Elsa are standing shoulder to shoulder, Neal nestled tight against her chest, that she realizes.

He never promised her that private courtship.)


	18. Chapter 18

**where the lovelight gleams.**

It's the first Christmas they've all had together – the first real Christmas when there hasn't been a curse hanging thick over their heads, an evil villain lurking in the shadows, or a wraith whipping through town intent on harboring souls (_christ_, her life). It's quiet and calm and everything feels _good_ for the first time in a very long time.

She feels like she can catch her breath.

Have a moment.

Make some tree garland out of cranberries and popcorn.

The whole thing is a mess, honestly, and she doesn't understand why people do this when there is a perfectly acceptable store down on the corner that sells tinsel in all manners of colors and consistencies (fairy tale creatures have a thing for obnoxious decorations, it seems). Her hands are sticky and red and there's a dismal amount on the string that look whole and perfect, compared to the loops her mother has coiled in neat little rows across the table – her fingers still porcelain and perfectly clean, she notes with a scowl.

"How the hell do you do that?"

Snow smiles serenely and threads another berry onto the needle, matching it neatly down with the others. "I had a lot of practice when I was younger. The Enchanted Forest doesn't have Target, I'm afraid." Her eyes dart up and her smile falters into something sad and regretful as they hold one another's gaze, and Emma wonders if things were different – if she had grown up in the Enchanted Forest with two loving parents – if she would know how to string berries together and not have hollow memories of Christmases alone.

Snow sighs and shakes her head, dropping the thread and reaching for Emma's hand instead.

"You're going to get red on your hands." She mutters but Snow chuckles under her breath, thumb rubbing back and forth over her knuckles.

"I don't care." She squeezes and Emma feels something inside of her shift, another broken piece of herself falling back into place. She's never had a family Christmas – never watched her mother string berries together while her dad and Henry bicker over the tree, Killian –

Killian leaning off to the side, staring out the window with his arms crossed over his chest, furrow between his eyebrows and body rigid as he stands just outside the glow of the fire. Her heart clenches at the obvious discomfort in his posture, and maybe she's not the only one not used to family Christmases.

Snow squeezes her hand and Emma's eyes dart back to soft brown.

"Go," Snow whispers, and a soft smile curls the corners of her lips. "He needs you."

She ignores the burning in her cheeks as she stands from her seat at the table, stepping over train sets and discarded ornaments as she makes her way over to him. Christmas music plays softly from the radio in the kitchen as the fire dances shadows over the living room and she feels _warm_ – Henry's loud laughter (_deep _laughter – his voice is changing and she doesn't know what to think about that) interrupting the soft stillness.

She touches the small of Killian's back when she's finally close enough, trying not to flinch when his entire body jolts at the contact. His wide gaze meets hers and he sighs, apology written in the twist of his lips as her reaches for her fingers and presses their palms together. She steps closer, and touches her head to his shoulder as they stare out the window together.

"What do you see, Captain?"

He hums under his breath and squeezes her fingers tighter. "I was doing a poor job of lookout, I'm afraid. I was just thinking that I, perhaps I – " He swallows hard and tilts his head back to the cold glass, his breath making a little cloud against it. She presses her forehead harder into his shoulder and wills the tension to relax, for the nightmare of the past couple weeks to recede and the aching wounds to heal.

"Perhaps I should go." He finishes on a shaky exhale and there is a brief moment when fear closes its icy grip around her throat – when ghosts and years of insecurities rise harsh and quick around her heart, pointing and mocking and –

"No," she says quietly, both to herself and him. "I think you should stay."

He drops his chin to the top of her head and tugs her to him a bit tighter, loosening his grip on her fingers to swing an arm over her shoulder. She can feel him trembling, and she doesn't know if it's because he's too far from the fire or he's afraid.

"Emma, I have done terrible things and I do not deserve the – "

"Shut up." She turns in his arms until they are pressed together knee to shoulder, cupping his face in her hands. He's got dark circles under his eyes and she sighs, wondering how many nights he's spent hating himself and the things Gold made him do. She traces them with her thumbs, and he finally – _finally_ – relaxes in her hold.

"You belong here. You deserve good things too, Killian." She slips her hands down until they rest loose around his neck, the fingers of her right hand scratching at the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Plus," she smiles a small, bashful thing, the heat in her cheeks making her feel like a moron in middle school – asking her crush to a dance. His lips twitch and his eyes dance and – _there he is_. "I want you here."

He bites at his bottom lip, tongue chasing a second later, shuffling a bit closer and pinning her to the window. "Is that so?"

She nods, and he catches her lips in a soft kiss – apology and thanks and warmth in every careful brush of his lips against hers. It's just like after their date – soft and reverent and she could very well drown in this man, lose herself in the way he holds her like she means something.

"Hey!" David's voice is only slightly outraged, his lips smiling as they spring apart like guilty teenagers. "I don't remember putting mistletoe over there."

She rolls her eyes and finds Killian's hand again, tugging him back into the glow of the fire and the two empty chairs in front of the cranberry strings from hell. He's probably worse at it than she is, and she snickers under her breath as she imagines him with pink stained fingertips and foul curses under his breath.

He squeezes her hand and settles in next to her, blue eyes shining in something she doesn't want to name quite yet, but feels with every unsteady pound of her heart.

-/-

(He's better at the cranberries than she is, the bastard, looking down at her mangled string with a mocking arch of his eyebrow, chuckling when she flicks one at him (and misses).

He tastes like cranberries and home when she kisses him, and maybe she could get used to a traditional Christmas.

With store-bought tinsel.)


	19. Chapter 19

The snowflakes that fall this time are decidedly less magical – thick and white and heavy as they linger a bit on the sleeves of her coat before melting, little clumps of white against navy blue. This will be a bad storm, she's sure – the snow already covering the streets and sidewalks and she makes a mental note to check on flashlights and candles. Storybrooke's power system is not the greatest, and she bites back a sigh as she thinks about the headaches coming her way.

He squeezes her hand in silent reassurance and she bites her bottom lip, tilting her head and shifting her gaze to the man beside her. His hair is speckled with white and she wants to run her fingers through it, scratch at his scalp until his jaw clenches and he gets that flash of hunger in his eyes – hair sticking at wayward angles as she kisses him senseless.

(She loves the way he looks when he first wakes up in the morning – mumbling under his breath with heavy eyelids, hair sticking up wildly on the side of his head not pressed to the pillow.)

The sky is heavy, the stars hidden from view by the clouds above and he tugs her a bit closer as they cross the street, slinging his arm over her shoulder and pulling her in tight. She likes being nestled close to him like this, his body heat pressing into her side and his breath tickling her cheek every time he tilts his head to brush his lips over her temple. His hand curls over her shoulder and fingers the top of her hat lightly, tongue gliding across his bottom lip in a way that makes her calculate just how long it's going to take them to get to her new apartment.

"I quite like this cap, Swan," he flicks lightly at the poof ball on top, grin pulling at the corners of his lips when she flicks back against his chest.

"You look," he tilts his head and snickers under his breath. "Adorable."

She pulls them to a stop in the middle of the street, the glow from the stoplight above reflecting off his cheeks as she arches a brow. He bites his lip against his smile, but his dimples still flash, and he's still an idiot. She sighs and rolls her eyes and leans up on her toes to press her lips to his, a silent challenge in the way she scrapes her teeth against his bottom lip. But he answers, as he always does, tangling his fingers in the ends of her hair not covered by her cap and curling it around his fingers, tugging lightly as he deepens the kiss – keeping it soft and slow and _magic_.

She can feel every snowflake that lands on her skin, every soft sigh that he presses against her mouth. She buries her fingers in his coat and pulls away, bumping his nose with hers and shivering from something that is not the cold, but she will dutifully convince herself (and him, the smug bastard) otherwise.

"I'll show you adorable."

He pulls her cap down further over her ears, laughing warm and loud at her pout and pulling her back against his chest. Their steps fall in perfect synchronicity as they continue their walk to her apartment (her _own_ apartment – blissfully empty and quiet and perfect) and she thinks she might love him – just like this – kissed by the cold with snowflakes in his hair.

"I daresay you will, love."


	20. Chapter 20

_Fixed it. _

**here is our happy ending. **

His eyes look dead and his words ring cold, the normal affection that laces his tone missing in place of this new cardboard way he's speaking to her. There is a flash of something - fear, maybe? - but then it's gone and he's pressing his lips to hers and it's wrong, wrong, _wrong_. She wants to grab his stupid jacket, shake him until he just _tells_ her, but -

"See you around, love."

His fingers are tight around her wrist and she feels them long after the door slams shut behind him.

-/-

"He's been playing us this whole time."

A lead weight settles in her stomach as everything starts to piece itself together because she knows now why he's been so distant, why his eyes look so dull and why she hasn't been able to find him for more than thirty seconds these past couple days. His hand, his deal - _all magic has a price_.

She swears under her breath and turns on her heel, rubbing her fingers over her wrist as she picks up her pace. Gold's shop is only two blocks away through the woods, and nothing motivates her quite like blind fury.

-/-

Belle is sitting crumpled on the floor when she finds her, silent tears running down her cheeks with the dagger in her lap. She wishes she possessed some sort of tact or intuition for this sort of thing, but the anxiety is clawing at her lungs, making it harder to breathe with every passing moment.

"Belle, it's Gold, he - "

She nods and takes a gasping breath, lifting the dagger up slightly in explanation. But whatever it explains, Emma has no idea, because something is wrong and Killian is different and she can't _breathe. _

"I know."

Her heart beats faster, her fingers running back and forth and back and forth over the sleeve of her jacket.

(If she closes her eyes, she can still feel his shaking grip. If she closes her eyes, she can still see the way his shoulders curled inward, jaw clenching tight.)

"Belle, there isn't much time."

The woman stands, tilting her chin up in quiet defiance. The tears still shine bright in her eyes but her grip on the dagger is strong, and her steps are sure as she grabs her coat from behind the counter.

"Let's go."

-/-

He's on his knees when they finally make it to the clocktower, his pained shout ringing out and pressing tight against her ribcage as Belle moves forward quickly, dagger held in plain view and her words strong. But she can't hear anything, can't _feel_ anything, because Killian is on his hands and knees and his heart is in someone else's hand and he _promised_.

"Emma, you have to go, he has the - "

Of course. Of course in his dying breath he would try and get her to run.

_Moron_.

"Shut. Up."

There is a flash of white light, magic exploding from her fingertips in a rush of warmth - and then his heart is in her hands and Belle and Rumple are gone.

She drums her fingers on the bright red organ (and of course with this too, of course it's red and shining because he is good and honorable and he won't fucking believe it for himself, the freaking _idiot_) and eyes him speculatively, the anxiety and fear quickly being replaced with rage.

"You," she points at him with his own heart and he flinches. She lessens her grip slightly. "Are in so much trouble."

-/-

She pushes it back in with far too much force (he deserves it, the stubborn bastard) and immediately his face changes, like a candle's been lit behind his eyes, his hook curling around her back and bringing her into him as his lips find hers and, _god_ -

(How did she not know before? How did she now know when _this_ is how he kisses?)

Her back hits the wall and her hand slides just slightly beneath his jacket, lingering over the place where his heart is hammering against his chest, fingers curling in the stupid vest he insists on wearing. His tongue slides along her bottom lip and she sighs out his name, chasing his lips when he pulls back, delighting in the way his nose bumps against hers.

"I told you, Swan," his fingers curl in her hair and she missed this, too - this easy sort of comfort and intimacy and warmth and she hates herself a bit because it took her far too long to notice all the little things. "I'm a survivor."

A smile curls her lips despite her best intentions and she watches as his lips do the same, her thumb tracing the indent his happiness makes, lightly wandering to the scar on the apple of his cheek. She closes her eyes and sighs out, pulling him a bit closer and feeling the flip in her stomach when his leg slips between hers.

"I missed you." She whispers and his palm glides between shirts and skin, his rings heavy and cold against her spine.

"Aye, my love." His teeth nip at her bottom lip and she takes a step forward, keeping her chest pressed to his as she maneuvers him to the room she knows is his. "I missed you as well."

She laughs into his lips when he curses low and foul, the doorknob hitting him in the base of his spine.

(She soothes it with gentle fingers, and promises to kiss it better later.)

-/-

She wakes to gentle snores pressed in the valley of her breasts, thick black hair ticking her chin, bed sheets twisted tight around her hips. She stretches and groans until he rolls and curls on his side, grumbling incoherently under his breath about _bloody crack of dawn _and_sodding grilled cheese is cold_.

She smiles and wraps herself around his back, pressing her palm flat against his chest until she can count the even beat of his heart, letting it lull her into a peaceful slumber.

(He wakes her later with shining eyes and clever fingers, her back arching and hips pressing and yeah - they aren't leaving this room for atleast six weeks.)


End file.
